


Balance of Power

by CollingwoodGirl, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Authoritative Jack, Authority, Blindfolds, Blink and Miss Plot, Blow Jobs, Competency Kink, Confessions, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Handcuffs, Hands, Interrogation, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Safewords, Sexual Equality, Smut, Spanking, Subspace, Teasing, Trust, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 11:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13546338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: This is not the first time Phryne has coaxed him into her games.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy/gifts).



> For my prompter (whose identity remains a mystery to me until this posts), thank you for an intriguing selection of ideas from which to choose. Though, you must have known-in some deep, dark, lustrous place-that your writer would drop to her knees and thank the heavens for an image to which she could only respond with the ebullient desire to write smut. Jack in braces will do that to you. I hope this fic is everything you hoped for-and maybe a little bit more.
> 
> You are reading this fic thanks to the tribe who managed to goad me into signing up for ficathon again, and to @sarahtoo for the thoughtful beta. I don't know what I ever did to earn your friendship, but I am certain I'm the richer for it. Love and whiskies all 'round.
> 
> And, finally, thank you to all the writers, readers, and MFMM fans out there. I'm reminded every day how fortunate and proud I am to be part of this fandom. I hope to see you all at Miss Fisher Con again this year!
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

_The balance of power is the scale of peace._ —Thomas Paine

 _Factors in the art of warfare are: First, calculations; second, quantities; third, logistics; fourth, the balance of power; and fifth, the possibility of victory is based on the balance of power._ —Sun Tzu

 

Jack allows Mr. Butler to take his hat and coat before throwing himself into the tufted armchair with a huff.

“Rough week, darling?” Phryne asks, without removing her eyes from the novel in her hands—well, to call it a __novel__ was a stretch, even for her.

“You could say that,” he replies mysteriously.

She turns the page with anxious fingers, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “You might have called me in to consult.”

He rolls his eyes. It’s been days since he’s seen her, since he’s been burned by her knowing gaze and flayed by her sharp wit. He’s missed her touch and her mouth—but most of all, her cleverness. He would have liked to have shared this case with her—talked through the details over whiskies, until the answers dawned upon them like the breaking sun—but the Commissioner had threatened to have his head, nevermind his badge. Deep down, Jack wants her to take the bait—to extract from him the information he is unable to part with freely.

“If I wanted this much sympathy, I would have gone home,” he clucks tartly.

“Nonsense.” Phryne’s voice is a whisper—so as not to distract herself from her book—as a generous glass of whisky is tucked into her lover’s hand. “Mr. Butler’s prescient powers don’t extend to your place.” She lifts her gaze just long enough to share a conspiratorial twinkle with her houseman before turning back to the page.

“She’s got me there,” Jack admits, relishing the smoothness of her expensive liquor, and thanking the excellent man who saw him fit to deserve it. He loosens his tie and casts a leg over the other to rest his ankle on the opposite knee. Between languid sips, he runs his thumb across the edges of the cut crystal glass, slowly allows himself unwind—lets her sea-green parlour buffer him with its warmth, the smell of her French perfume (and Mr. Butler’s roast) inveigle his senses.

He’s suddenly content to watch her read, guessing at the content as her mouth parts and she subtly shifts in her seat. Several minutes pass before she folds a corner down and presses it shut between her hands.

“Good book?” His smile is slow and knowing.

“Mmm,” she purrs, and curls—cat-like—into his lap, inviting his fingertips to stroke along the fine short hair at her nape. “I’d let you read it but then you’d have to arrest yourself.”

He groans as her pointed tongue paints a stripe down his neck. “They can’t all be Shakespeare.”

“Thank goodness for that,” she grins. “What my black-market collection lacks in poetry is more than made up for in resourcefulness.” His dark chuckle sends a thrill through her.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to spend the evening with your—what is it this time? An Arabian Prince disguised as a pauper? A Noble Sheephand called on to serve his mistress? Or, perhaps, a Lost Traveler seeking shelter?”

He’s teasing her, but she knows there’s earnestness in the question. She adores him even more for asking. “The Arabian Prince can suffer his bonds a little longer while I tend to my Intrepid Inspector.” Her mouth, warm and waxy with Rouge d’Enfer, presses to his as she sucks his tongue between her lips.

Jack feels the day fall away from him, knowing how he must look—how his lips redden and his cheekbones swell to apples. How his hair, raked by her fingertips, falls over his brow in waves. This is what she does to him. He wonders if, among the paper-backed novellas beside Phryne’s bed, someone has written a version of Dorian Gray where the secret to the man’s youth is in the stoking fire of a beloved’s kiss rather than an enchanted portrait. He doesn’t ask—she would only crow with victory, and it’s far better to keep her guessing. Reaching beneath the lace of her shawl, he circles the apex of her breast through her blouse until it stiffens beneath the pad of his thumb.

Her breath catches on the anticipation bubbling up her throat. Giddy is the only word that comes to her mind but she fights it. It doesn’t do the depths of her happiness justice. Girls are giddy. She thinks of Jane, at university and in love for the first time. Overcoming her traumatic start to life with the help of a self-made family, Jane has blossomed into a remarkable young woman. A firebrand in her own right—just as Jack had predicted. Phryne has taught her ward to know her own mind. It was a gift she gave, fiercely and freely—knowing both its worth and how some would try to steal it for their own.

Jane will not suffer a René DuBois under Phryne’s watch. Jane deserves to be happy. Deserves to be giddy. So what, then, is a grown woman—forced to grow up far too fast and bear too great a burden for one so young—who has finally found freedom in the embrace of her equal? Her lips curl into bows at the corners and let spill the froth of delight. _Fuck it_ , she thinks, _I’ve never had the chance to be giddy before._

Jack swallows her laughter greedily, lapping up every drop like the finest champagne. He can’t help but wonder, when she is like this, if he is the only lover who’s had the privilege of seeing it. If he is the only one who takes her to this place. It’s a selfish and deeply narcissistic thought, but he basks in the possibility. He wants more. Shaping his hands into claws, he runs the blunt edges of his nails over her torso in loose spirals. He wants to help her shred her flirtatious bravado—to peel back the layers until there is nothing but need, naked and honest.

“Jack—” She clears her throat, trying to rid her voice of the trembling quality she hears. “What would you say to skipping—”

“Supper is ready, Miss Fisher, Inspector.”

It is a respectable distance from which Mr. Butler calls, and, in the space of a heartbeat, Phryne can smell the sulphur from the struck matchhead. Dinners with the Inspector are always accompanied by candlelight—sometimes, just the one.

“But it might be best to give the wine a few more moments to breathe, Miss.”

If she hadn’t already, Phryne knows now that her butler has a wicked sense of humour. Mr. B has, no doubt, retreated to the kitchen, to allow _the wine_ to breathe without an audience.

Slowly, she releases her own breath—a curling vapour following a carefully pulled cork. Not until Jack looks up into her flushed face does he realise just how close she is.

“His roast is some of his best work, you know,” he goads. “I wouldn’t want to cause offense.”

“Jack,” she warns, tremulous and desperate.

He pulls her close, one arm wrapped securely round her back, the other fondling her knees as it winds beneath her skirt. Some deep, dark part of him roars that the ruined look of her, while still fully clothed, plays to his basest inclinations.

"No need for threats,” he replies blithely as his fingers skitter upwards over her lacy garters to trace the shape of her through her knickers.

She kisses him messily—too overcome with desire for any finesse—and feels him chuckle against her, a vibration that tingles right down to her toes. He keeps up his onslaught, scratching gently at her hood—a tickling, teasing sensation that, combined with the friction of the silk, is the best kind of torture. She wants to scream.

“I want to feel _you_ , Jack,” she whispers instead.

“You will.” His voice is hoarse as he lets his fingertips flutter over her. “But for now, I want you to feel me just like this.” He isn’t precisely sure why he’s insisting on denying her contact—except that he’s always enjoyed having the upper hand, and can feel himself growing addicted to the way she’s looking at him, glassy-eyed and mad with want.

He dips his fingers in and out of the sodden, silken hollow until she is panting and his fingertips are as wet as he imagines she must be. Any moment, he expects her to tear the undergarment away—to take command of his wrist and impale herself on his fingers until she is seated in the palm of his hand. Phryne Fisher is a woman who takes what she wants, and so it equally unnerves and intrigues him that, a few curses on his family name notwithstanding, she seems content to accept his conditions.

Drawing slow, sweet circles against her tongue, Jack kisses her with unhurried passion as his fingers mimic the movement below. It has been a long time since she has been able to trust a man with her person _and_ her pleasure—even longer since she has cared to.

Common were the handsome dandies, singularly preoccupied with their own windfall at bedding her, with too little knowledge, practice, or care on seeing her through to a proper end. Even when the occasional rodeo rider brought her to release on his own merit, she never left the thing to chance—and always had a weapon close to hand. It feels like the most decadent luxury imaginable to untether her instincts and allow her limbs to soften in Jack Robinson's arms.

She relaxes against him as he conducts a veritable chorale of pleasure-sounds from her—soprano-tinged mewls of praise rub against bass-slicked groans of deepest devotion. It is as close to godliness as he has ever felt. He presses the pad of his thumb firmly to her clitoris, rocking from side to side like a metronome, forcing her sensitive structure to buckle and pop beneath the pressure. “Will you come for me, Phryne?”

She gasps at his boldness, and her hips stutter as his hand finds her slippery skin—hotter than hellfire and just as sinful. “Please,” he begs, lower lip pulling tight against his teeth. “I’ve got you.”

And, so, he did.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

Dinner _was_ some of her houseman’s best work. As plates are cleared and dessert is served, Phryne considers how easily Jack has fitted into her life and at her table since her return from London. She can easily endure the knowing looks from Mac, the dirty grins from Bert, and the occasional prodding from her aunt if it means she can have him like this—with his knee touching hers as they sip Cabernet, her thighs still tacky with their release. _Us… Together._ To have the grist and marrow of him.

“So... you cracked City Central’s case—the one that’s been in the papers.” The words slide out as easily as Mr. Butler’s berry soufflé slides over her tongue.

It is work to swallow his last spoonful of dessert as Jack coughs around the shock of her dénouement. As with a good soufflé, timing is everything.

“It was an inside job, wasn’t it? A policeman?”

“How the hell did you know that?” Jack’s secondment to the case had been a closely guarded secret at Russell Street—let alone the suspicion that a uniformed officer had been implicated. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little impressed.

“You’re not the only detective in the room, Inspector.” The sparkle in her eyes is a reprieve from the guilt he feels for not being able to tell her. “The commissioner’s wife sits on the Hospital Board with Aunt Prudence. It was an inspired coincidence when she learnt the brilliant policeman who cracked the case was practically part of the family.”

“I wish your aunt was less inclined to bandy my name about—though I’m glad to know where you inherited the inclination.” Jack makes a point of ignoring the way she rolls her eyes at him.

“The top brass is thinking of using me as something of a—what was your father’s word for it?”

“A ringer?”

“Mmm.” His mouth squirms as his serviette falls to the table. The job has always been a blessing and a curse. Throwing himself into his work was always preferable to acknowledging the ghosts of war or facing up to the truth of his splintering marriage. He is exceptional at it—the youngest officer to be named detective inspector in the history of the Victoria police—but the distinction comes with a price.

“Do you mind?” she asks, placing her hand atop his, all coyness suspended.

Jack spares one of his soft smiles for her. “Not as long as I can investigate my own cases.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged. I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it.”

“Phryne—”

“And I’m quite certain you meant to say _our cases_ ,” she adds, unable to resist the note of warning in his tone which only serves to egg on her teasing.

“Phryne!”

“Poor Jack,” she coos, lashes fluttering. “Always in such demand. It’s your natural authority, you know.” She can’t help but be reminded of the register of his voice when he issues his orders.  
_I’m the officer who outranks you, Crossley._

“Police presence, Miss Fisher,” he tuts, a sardonic smile flitting across his lips. “First thing they used to teach cadets at the Academy.”

As a rule, Phryne finds the assertion of a man’s power distasteful. At best, it is arrogant. At worst, deadly. Tyrannical. But there is something in the way Jack Robinson’s is measured—as though it is his _own_ heart he weighs against the Feather of Truth—that sets her alight.

His brow dips as he looks curiously at her, shivering in her seat. “Cold?”

“Not at all.” She reaches for her water goblet and takes an overlarge measure.

“Hmm,” he quips, unsure what to make of her behavior. “Well, it’s not as if I insisted they turn the case files over to me.”

“Not this time. Though, I do seem to recall a number of instances in which you parlayed your clout into some very satisfactory results.”   
_I’m taking over the Voight case._

“Experience does have some advantage,” he admits.

“Not to mention how utterly competent you are.” She imagines his hardened profile as he’d questioned the suspects in the string of sensational burglaries she’d read about in The Argus—the gleam in his eye the moment he’d figured it out—and squeezes her legs together. “I only wish I’d been there to see it.”

“Phryne, what the hell—"

“Inspector Robinson.” She traces the tendons of his hand with a fingertip, picturing his thick fingers gripping the interrogation table’s edge. “You have no idea the effect you have when you take… _command_ of a situation.”

It is only then that he registers the crimson flush blossoming across her collarbones, the inky-black disks devouring her crystal blue irises, the rhythmic lift of her snowy linen napkin obscuring the ministrations of the hand in her lap. His cock hardens in a rush of understanding that leaves him dizzy.

By the time Jack is able to find the words obscured by the thickness of his tongue, his voice is hoarse. “Tell me.”

“It is _very_ appealing,” she breathes, in a voice so faraway it is impossible for him not to want to join her wherever she is.

“You still don’t listen to me,” he tells her in a voice that is neither hurt nor bothered—only curious. “Despite the enormity of my authoritative appeal.”

Phryne’s breath catches on a light huff of a laugh. “I am who I am, Jack. You can’t expect miracles. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want the weight of your cock on my tongue when you exert it.”

“My place,” he growls. “Ten o’clock. And don’t you dare be a minute late.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

He is shaking by the time he arrives home. There is only one thing for it. As rivulets of water stream over his body, he takes himself roughly in hand.

This is not the first time Phryne has coaxed him into her games. He enjoys the push and pull of their partnership—a balance of power that keeps the hook baited, and one of them always hungry enough to test their luck.

He bites the inside of his bicep to muffle the moan bubbling up his throat at the memory of waking one morning to find his wrists bound to her bedposts by his own handcuffs, Phryne straddling his chest. Gooseflesh ripples his abdomen as Jack recalls the soaring feeling of being simultaneously tethered and free—how it had confused and racked his body with a ferocious need. It had been the first of many pleasurable surrenders on his part. And yet, despite her numerous hints, he had been wary to return the favour at first. It was one thing for her to restrain _him_ physically. After all, he was larger and stronger—he told himself she was only leveling the playing field. It had been a patronising way of thinking, considering her womanly intelligence outmatched his manly strength on the regular. Even less altruistic had been his refusal to become synonymous with the men in her life who had sought to control her.

How foolish he had been, to have allowed his pride to masquerade as some sort of perverse nobility. How arrogant, to have thought he knew her desires better than she—to have presumed it was his duty to protect her from them.

They share many qualities, he and Phryne. The realisation built slowly, over time, like being submerged in increasingly warm water only to discover one has been stewed. Jack proclaimed himself a serious man, but she was no less fervent when it came to her own responsibilities. His dourness, her frivolity—both constructs designed to shield them from unwanted intrusion. And where his stubbornness may be relied upon as surely as the sun rises and sets, hers is as legendary as a red sky and as awesome.

Now, when he sees the unbridled longing in her eyes, hears her coy entreaties dropped like jewels for him to pick up and put in his pocket, he understands. When he surrenders to her, it is never with the sense of being conquered. His offerings of trust and power and pleasure are met with honour, and the space in which to cast off his pride and be loved in whatever manner she saw fit to give. Phryne Fisher, a steadfast believer in equality, pronounced that she deserved nothing less. It remains a heady revelation—one that forces a blush to the tips of his ears, even as his cock surges against his palm—to know she trusts him in all things, even this.

Jack shuts his eyes to the shower spray, and prepares himself.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

Phryne thinks of nothing but the dark promises Jack ignited and left to burn, like smouldering coals in the whisky-soaked depths of his voice. The cool water of her bath does little to slake the heat that kindles beneath her hips, despite the tending of her clever fingers. Anticipation pulls her skin firm and taut, greedy for every sensation. Her toilette is an orchestra of feeling. Her scalp tingles as she runs the boar bristle brush through her hair, and her collarbones arch to meet the weighty kiss of the perfume flacon’s crystal stopper. She relishes the drag of the kohl against her eyes, the whisper-soft press of the pad of her ring finger as she daubs rouge to her lips. Keenly aware of Jack’s weakness for her bare skin, she eschews her face powder even if it means missing the luscious sweep of sable hairs against her cheeks.

She re-dresses in as few pieces as polite society demands, should she be delayed—she is Phryne Fisher after all, and trouble has a way of finding her. Garter belt, knickers, stockings, and a sensuous satin number that feels like rushing water. Her nipples, resplendent in their arousal, emboss a relief in the expanse of smooth black fabric. The coat she wears is beautifully made—a marvel of silk and embroidery—and woefully thin for the weather, yet perspiration glosses her skin.

Marshalling the nerves that spark white and hot in her belly like a firework, she runs a smoothing hand over her perfectly bobbed hair.

It is precisely fifty-nine minutes past the hour when she knocks.

Perhaps she’s become too accustomed to using a lockpick because when the door swings open wide, she loses her breath in a dizzying gust. He invites her in, his eyes soft and warm and drinking her in as if years—rather than minutes—have passed since he’s last seen her. Phryne is no stranger to men’s attention but only Jack Robinson has ever looked at her like this. She meets his devotion head-on, resigning herself to its addictive nature, and registers how positively delicious he looks—clean-shaven and dressed in a fresh shirt, broad shoulders punctuated by red braces, his bare feet jutting out beneath dark trousers.

Phryne knows the rules of the game better than anyone—it is his move to make—yet she has no wish to be this far from the circle of his arms. She drops her overnight bag to the floor, her coat following suit, and steps closer. “Hallo Jack.”

Before she can wonder if he will choose to discipline her for her impertinence, his mouth is on hers, his palms cradling her jaw, long, luscious fingers threading over the shells of her ears and into her hair. Jack is not playing at seduction. He kisses her as honestly and thoroughly as he does anything—with a single-minded determination that makes her weak in the knees.

“Miss Fisher,” he chuffs, when he has no choice but to break the kiss for oxygen. With her hands tethered to his hips, he can easily believe that she could have him beneath her before he can take his next breath—judo expert or not. It is not a mistake he intends to make again, especially when he realizes he can count the sprinkle of sun spots across her cheeks. Besides, he has questions that need answering. “May I offer you a drink?”

His house is cool—cooler than outside—and for the first time all evening, Phryne catches a chill. Jack’s fireplace lay dormant in spite of the cord of wood stacked at its edge, and she can only deduce that he must have other plans to keep her warm. Her shiver deepens.

“I’ll get it,” she volunteers, seizing the opportunity to calm herself before the game is lost to the litany of impulses firing within her. Jack’s bar cart is adequately stocked for a man of his nature—a decent gin, a better whisky, a dusty bottle of brandy, and a decanter of his favourite red. She doesn’t ask how he’s procuring it these days. She selects the wine and pours a glass. “Are you indulging?”

She must sense the heat of him through her slip of a dress as he moves behind her, because she is arching into him before he ever makes contact. “I am,” he breathes into her ear, glorying in the way her spine stiffens. He snakes his arms under hers to trace the long lines of her neck down to her collarbones, brushing over her breasts so their stiffened peaks can tickle his palms. “But not in the wine. You’re intoxicating enough.”

Pirouetting in his embrace, she allows her gaze to drift across his handsome features. She dips her fingertips into her glass and paints them over his exposed throat, lapping the wine from his burning skin. “Mmm. Whereas I prefer as many pleasures as possible.”

In one swift motion, he dispatches the drink and captures both her wrists in one hand, pulling them up over her head. “You’re not playing fair, Miss Fisher.”

Lashes flutter in feigned innocence—he sounds positively strangled, despite the fact that she’s the one currently restrained. “Then perhaps it’s time we dust off the playbook, Inspector. Would you fetch my bag?”

Jack stretches her just the tiniest bit taller, forcing her to her tiptoes, and strokes a lazy finger in figure eights just below her navel. “I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”

Challenge glitters, hot and bright, in her eyes and she bites her lip—a gesture that renders her both mildly repentant and utterly seductive. Then she pulls her face into a contrite expression she’s sure he sees through—but so long as he doesn’t stop doing that thing with his finger, she doesn’t care. “I’m sure what I meant was, if you’d be so kind as to retrieve my bag, I’d very much like to begin.”

“Good,” he whispers, administering a firm pinch to her nether lips through the layers of her dress. Her gasp is sweeter than any sound he can imagine. “Good. So would I.”

Having released her, he does as she has bidden him—how easily it comes to her, he thinks with envy—casting his gaze over his shoulder. Glass of wine in hand, she is making her way toward his bedroom, wiggling her bottom far more than necessary for the job. He doubles his efforts—but can’t help but wonder who really _is_ in charge, knowing he wouldn’t prefer it any other way.

The contents of the tapestry case clatter and clang as he carries it to his bed. “Dare I ask what’s in here?”

“A guest should never arrive empty-handed, Jack.” She takes a long draught of her drink and smiles at him with all of her teeth. “If she wishes to be asked back.”

He takes her free hand and places a soft kiss where he’d previously gripped her. “Please consider this a standing invitation, then.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and tangles her fingers into the rings of his still-damp hair, tugging him close for another kiss before the games begin in earnest. “You haven’t even seen what I’ve brought you.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t forgotten your feelings on the use of handcuffs for reasons beyond the unlawful, Inspector. I hoped this might be a suitable compromise.”

From a gilded box, she produces a circlet of smooth, twisted silver strands meant to bind her hands together—so beautiful in appearance, it could easily be mistaken for a piece of jewelry.

“It works like one of those Chinese children’s toys. Forcing outward won’t budge the rings. It will only open when it’s pressed together… exactly like so. But the wearer can’t manage it.”

Phryne demonstrates by offering him one side to hold while she pulls vigourously at the other. Nothing happens. But when she squeezes inward at two marked points on its radius, the two hemispheres unslot from each other and fall free.

“No keys to lose,” she teases. “What do you think?”

Jack runs his fingertips over the ingenious device. “I already had plans for you, but I think I can cope with this new development.”

“Mmm. I do so love it when you’re flexible, darling.”

“Opportunistic, Miss Fisher. Opportunistic.”

The circlet now lies gleaming upon the bureau amidst the other illicit items she’d had the audacity to smuggle into a policeman’s home, and Jack’s own secret stash—decidedly unremarkable in comparison, unless one knows their especial uses.

She considers the surfeit in front of her with discerning eyes. As the recipient of tonight’s attention, it is Phryne’s right to cast off any playthings that disagree with her mood.

“You may select three,” he tells her in a tone that implies she’s been known to cheat at this. “Or will you trust my judgment?”

 _Therein lies the problem_ , Phryne thinks. Her gaze passes over a gorgeously carved jade phallus and Jack’s soft-worn set of kid leather gloves. Lengths of ribbon and rope fan out in figure eights. The barbs of a plush pink feather dance in the eddies of air while a silky black blindfold seems to almost stare back at her. One thing is for certain, Jack knows her far too well and—from the gleam in his eye—he intends to have her begging.

“I always trust you, Jack.”

Jack nods approvingly and pulls her in for a kiss, one hand stealthily unfastening the hooks of her dress so it slides neatly from her shoulders with a satisfying _swish_. Her nipples tighten into buds as the cool air hits them and circulates around her bare torso, and he steadfastly resists the urge to warm them in his mouth. Unmoving from his position, his palms circle round to traverse her back, flat against either side of her spine, and holds them perfectly still until her breath grows ragged with anticipation. In the space of a heartbeat, he rotates his fingers and sends her knickers southward to join her dress.

She places her hands upon his shoulders, gingerly stepping out of her shoes and the fabric that has pooled around her ankles. His hands are heavy and warm on her hips.

“What word will you use to tell me when it’s too much?”

She can feel the pads of his fingers press in a fraction as he asks, and remembers introducing him to the idea of using a special word as a means to communicate one’s absolute limit, to stop the game in earnest without fear of reprisal or judgment. The concept had appealed at once. It is a way for Jack to assure himself of her comfort, her pleasure, her safety. It is also way for him to appease his conservative nature without denying his cravings. It is a question asked with reverence and answered with trust.

Curling her fingers under his chin, she nestles her thumb into the small cleft. “Abbotsford.”

“Abbotsford,” he echoes, like the closing of a prayer, and accepts her soft kiss before allowing a wolfish grin to stalk across the planes of his face.

Taking the silver circlet from his dresser, Jack practices opening and closing it the way she had demonstrated. He is satisfied when he can release it smoothly in his large hand without needing to look for the pressure points.

Without Jack’s warmth, she shivers where she stands. It’s not entirely unpleasant, especially when his eyes roam hotly over every inch of her with meticulous calculation.

“No dagger? I’m not sure whether to be relieved or appalled.”

“Hardly the only weapon in my arsenal, Inspector.”

“Never a truer word has been spoken,” Jack concedes—Phryne puts the _arse_ in arsenal.

“Speaking of weapons, have you settled on yours?” she asks with a glance to the pile of erotic flotsam and jetsam on his bureau.

It’s his smirk that makes her nipples twinge, growing impossibly harder.

“Wrists,” he orders, feeling drunk on the thrill in her eyes as she offers her hands in supplication. He appears to be considering it for a moment before the corner of his mouth drops. “No. Behind your back, I think. Like this.”

Moving behind her, he arranges her arms so they are parallel to the ground, her elbows bent at right angles, each hand gripping the opposite forearm. The insides of her wrists, where she daubs her perfume, are kissing. He imagines the picture she makes from the front—the way her breasts must nudge forward like a pout. Phryne’s body is lithe and flexible, and Jack now knows it well enough to presume the position is comfortable. He still asks.

“Alright?”

She almost wants to say no, so he’ll keep touching her like this. The contortion takes effort. She must concentrate on keeping her muscles engaged so her shoulders won’t be sore. It reminds of her days as an artist’s model, except _she_ is the work of art instead of the imitation translated to the canvas.

“Yes, Jack. I’m alright.”

“Very good.” He snaps the decorative cuff around her wrists, locking them in place. “And it’s _Inspector Robinson_ until these are off.”

Not for the first time does Phryne marvel at how good Jack is at slipping into and out of this persona. She’d wager it’s the frustrated actor in him but— _oh god_ —the gust of his breath on the nape of her neck obliterates all thought from her mind. Warm hands push down on her shoulders, gentle but firm, urging her to sink to her knees. Desire surges between her legs.

His fingers flirt with the fastenings of his trousers. “Now, I believe you wanted _the weight of my cock_ , Miss Fisher.”

“Inspector Robinson, I want a great many things of yours. Your cock… your cries… your hands—tight and heavy on my hips.” She revels in the desperate sounds he makes when her tongue darts out to wet her lips and sponge the edges of her teeth. “But you shouldn’t think for a moment it’s an exhaustive list.”

Torpedoed by her teasing, Jack races to unbutton his fly without bothering to remove his braces. Her wanton laugh ricochets off the plaster walls. When his erection is free of its tight woolen confines, she leans in—still smiling—to press kisses to his chestnut curls, tossing her bob so the silky strands tumble over his hot straining skin.

A hiss of breath gushes over his teeth. “I love it when you do that.”

“I know,” she whispers into his abdomen. She can feel his cockhead twitching in the lengths of her hair beside her ear, and contemplates how to approach the feast that awaits her—without the use of her hands. Deciding on a forthright approach, she sucks his plummy corona into her mouth without preamble. The hands suddenly clutching her aren’t there to demand, but to keep himself steady as she takes him deeper.

Jack isn’t sure how he’s ever lived without this—this feeling of being surrounded and consumed, his spine on fire, his knees like pudding. His nerves are, all at once, attuned to the tiniest shifts in sensation—a bead of sweat as it rolls down his chest, the flutter of her uvula as he nudges against the back of her throat. It is a gift bestowed when the warm, wet heat of her mouth is on him—when they both are singularly focused on the same thing. His pleasure.

She looks up to find him watching her, chin tucked tightly against his chest, a wave of forelock crashing over his brow. It is a wonder how this man, fully clothed, can look so debauched. His eyes are black as thunderheads, his cheeks are hollowed and fierce as lightning. His veins rise like swollen rivers from his throat, temples and forearms. The cords of muscle in his neck strain against reddened skin, slick with sweat, as he works to hold back. To make it last.

Phryne has lost count of how many times they’ve been together since her return to Melbourne, each as unique as a fingerprint. But it is only when she loves him with her mouth that he manages to lose himself so completely.

When their gazes meet, Phryne releases him with a _pop!_ and licks a stripe up the length of his shaft, nibbling gently along his frenulum. She knows how terribly sensitive it is, and thrills in the whimpers he tries to muffle against his shoulder. Her expression is innocence itself as she blows lightly over her handiwork. The choked sound he makes is her cue to take all of him back into her mouth, engulfing him in flames. The curses that spill over the crown of her head spur her to go deeper, faster—to shred that tightly coiled control until he can’t help but dig the pads of his fingers into her scalp and piston his hips against her.

“Phryne!” he whispers, the urgency pulling his words shrill and tight. “I’m close… so close.”

It is the work of a moment to relax her throat and swallow around him. She looks up and fixes the words in her eyes, _Come for me, Inspector Robinson_ , and he obeys with a shout—spilling into her willing mouth with abandon. When he floats back into himself, she is still on her knees, nuzzling his spent cock and peppering his balls and thighs with light kisses.

His fingers dart out beneath her chin and bid her to rise, the warmth of his aquamarine eyes slowly replacing the onyx of blown pupils. A blush rises up his lean cheeks as he tucks himself back into his trousers—he is well pleased, but still fights the nagging feeling that he ought not to be.

“Miss Fisher,” he says softly, wrapping her in his arms to kiss her and taste his release on her tongue. Her mouth is soft and pliant beneath his, and she sags the tiniest bit against him to feel the scratchy starch of his shirt against her skin.

He allows her indulgence for a moment, chuckling darkly as he turns her and crouches down to check the join of her wrists. His tongue darts out to lick the binding, and its tangy metallic notes are sparks firing against the steady, heady warmth of her skin. Her moan makes the all the fine hairs on his body stand up. He palms the backs of her thighs, slowly circling around to the front and pulls her closer to whisper filthy promises against the pillow of her arse.

By the time he releases her, Phryne has no memory of Jack loosening her garter belt or releasing her stockings to puddle below her knees. It takes a moment to acclimate to the change in her center of gravity—a sway, a wobbly step, the slightest bend at the waist—before her swagger returns. She shifts on her toes and lifts one shapely leg, foot extended _en pointe—_ a silent bid for him to remove the silk.

The joy in Jack’s chest sounds like a bark when it’s released. He readily worships every inch of her, but ever since that fateful day when he forced her from his desk with an arachnid, he cannot deny his predilection for her legs. Perhaps it was the innocence with which those stockinged delights were presented time and time again. A scuffed knee in the street outside her home. A flash of thigh in a bookshop. The way the apricot fishnets hugged the curve of her calves as the feathers fanned around her, concealing further treasures. The playful swing of her ankles as her tennis skirts hitched upward.

It’s not lost on him that he’s the one on his knees—but the complications of the implication only serve to enthrall. _Simple is for amateurs._ It is exactly this mercurial balance of power that he craves. To give and take with impunity because he knows she will not hesitate to treat him in kind.

“That sort of cheek’s just begging for punishment,” he teases, but removes the stocking anyway. And the other, when it’s proffered, to pull the lengths of black silk through his loose fist.

“I _did_ leave the paddle among the assortment.”

Only the hitch of his adam’s apple betrays the veneer of his admirable reserve. “Miss Fisher, if you think I’m going to deprive myself the sensation of your perfectly shaped arse pinkening in my hand, you are very much mistaken.”

A shiver runs through her where she stands. “Well?”

“You’ll have to prove that you deserve it.” With a two-fingered gesture, he commands her closer, settling her onto the edge of the wooden chair he sits on each morning to tie his shoelaces. “Patience.”

“It’s never been my long suit.”

He loops her stockings around her calves to bind each to a leg of the chair so she is immobilized, and grins like the very devil. “Practice makes perfect.”

“So help me, if those tear—”

“You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” Jack says this with an impassive expression—the fate of her stockings is, quite possibly, the last thing on his mind with her cunt hungry and dripping and open to him. He leans forward and inhales the scent of her sweetness.

The whisper of his hair against her skin makes her tremble and her muscles tighten—bracing for the bolt of lightning sure to strike when he touches her. It never comes, and she isn’t sure how many minutes have passed when she opens her eyes to find him smirking before her. After a beat, he stands abruptly and begins to circle her.

“Tell me, Miss Fisher,” he says in his gravelly policeman’s tone—all business with sparks of danger glittering in the crevices. “In your professional opinion, what interrogation technique do you believe to be the most effective?”

Phryne takes a deep breath—unnerved by his lack of contact and giddy from his constant orbit. “Torture—if history is anything to go by.”

“Interesting theory. Though most people would say anything to make it stop—admit to crimes they’ve never committed. Torture alone doesn’t always lead to the truth.”

Phryne throws her shoulders back in utter defiance of the knot she’s been tied in. “I’m not _most_ people.”

“Certainly not,” Jack whispers, gazing down the nape of her neck, and counting each vertebra to where her arms block their path from view. He doubts a more compelling creature has ever walked the face of the earth. “You’re far too stubborn to admit anything at all. Which proves my point. Ending the torment isn’t enough. A good investigator knows what motivates his suspect above all other things… her needs… her desires.”

“It sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience, Inspector.”

“It’s about to get very personal.” She wriggles uselessly in her bonds when he slips the cool, smooth cloth over her eyes and fastens it behind her head.

Jack does not take her sight often. He’s learnt that her reliance upon it for detecting alone— _I have the eyes of a fox_ , Collins said she’d boasted—made the vulnerability even more deeply felt. She suspects that is precisely the reason he chooses to do it, upping the ante by eschewing the blindfold from the bureau in favour of his tie. His scent, with its notes of warm skin and wool, ink and sandalwood, washes over her. Its tails brush deliciously against her shoulders.

“What makes you think I’ll crack?” she says, with so much false bravado, it needs its own dressing room. Her pulse is jumping madly in her throat.

“I know what you want, Miss Fisher. You made the mistake of admitting it earlier this evening.”

Phryne racks her brain, trying to remember what she might have said. It doesn’t go on long—because Jack never forgets.

“You said that you wanted _to feel me_.” There had been a time when Jack had felt a bit sheepish about admitting Phryne Fisher wanted him as much, if not more, than he wanted her. Thankfully, it had passed. He runs the feather across her collarbones. “But you’re not going to get that until you confess.”

“C-confess what?” _Oh god. First, the blindfold and now, the feather._ Jack does not mean to take it easy on her. It’s absolute heaven on her skin—whisper soft, like a thousand tiny kisses—but not enough. Not ever enough. Already, she is imagining the ecstasy of Jack’s hands taking over its path, and arches her body into the sensation.

He swirls the barbs over her so lightly, it’s more the hint of contact that has gooseflesh erupting in waves, as he moves it over her in random patterns so she cannot predict where it will land next. “Admit how you knew about my case.”

“I told you… Aunt Prudence—”

“Was told by her very clever niece that I’d solved the case that was causing the Commissioner’s wife so much grief in her society circles. And how else would you have known unless you’d worked it out yourself?”

A gasp strangles her riposte as the plume saws over her hips and thighs. “You like this too much, I think,” and he chuckles at her whinge when he threatens to pull it away.

“More, Jack,” she pants. “Please.”

“The silver circlet. There are very few places in Melbourne you could have acquired it. Perhaps a nice, quiet shop in the Arcade with a reputation for rare acquisitions and the utmost discretion?” He moves the feather over her breasts, one at a time, kissing her straining nipples with the very tip. The sound she makes nearly brings him undone. He hisses, unbuttoning his trousers to seize his cock and pull roughly to relieve some of the ache.

The rustle of wool is immediately recognizable to her ears, and she is set alight—knowing Jack is touching himself as he watches her bodyfuck the feather without a hope of release.

“It was the jeweler’s son,” she keens, suddenly eager to please, and is instantly rewarded with a vicious flick of his fingertips to her clitoris. The orgasm washes over her like a wave, strong enough to send her reeling out of the chair but for the stockings anchoring her in place. It increases her appetite for another, tenfold. “He was buying stolen property and selling it from his father’s shop. His fence must have been a policeman.”

“I know,” Jack growls, tearing away his tie so he can read the truth in her eyes. “The question is, how do you?”

She blinks rapidly, adjusting to the light in the room, before looking her gaze with his. Between her thighs, his fingertips dance a slow, close waltz—incentive for her to continue. “I recognised another piece when I bought the cuff; a set of small golden clamps on a fine chain. They’d belonged to a friend—not that kind, Jack. But when I rang her about them, she said they'd been taken in a police raid targeting obscene and indecent objects smuggled into the country. Except, there’s no evidence of this raid ever taking place. So I went back to the shop to investigate... and that’s when I saw you and your men going in. I put two and two together and realised what you had been working on so secretly all week— _Ohhh!_ ”

Pressure bites down on her shins as a flash of sheffield steel slices through the ties binding her to the chair. Jack tucks the blade of his folding bowie knife back into the ebony handle, and pulls her legs over the plinths of his shoulders.

Her moans ring out as his hot mouth laps at her—strangled words of encouragement, and pleas not to stop. She couldn’t care less that her arms are still immobilized by the silver circlet at the heart of this case, or that she is leaning awkwardly into the back of the chair—the crown of her head pressing into one of the wooden rungs—so long as he remains buried between her thighs.

A sudden, nagging thought forces her to press a heel to his chest. “There was an emerald ring in one of the cases that looked familiar.”

“Cut like a scarab beetle,” he breathes into her mound, letting his lips and teeth graze her as he speaks. “Belongs to a Lady Arbuckle. Nearly a dozen priceless pieces were recovered and reunited with their owners. Perhaps you could assist with the identification of the, _ah…_ ” he nuzzles in to nibble at her, “…more _sensitive_ artifacts.”

“You really are the most marvelous policeman, Detective Inspector.”

Whether she was complimenting his invitation or technique was irrelevant. There was something about those two words that made his cock weep with wanting her. His voice, when he can find it, is sharp enough to cut glass. “All of it.”

It only takes her a beat to puzzle out what he means—she so rarely uses his full title in front of him. Phryne’s lips pucker in a knowing moue, and she tastes the words before speaking them, ensuring the correct amount of salt.

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

He thinks it is the way she manages to appear demure, while naked and bound in his bedroom, that leaves him no choice but to devour her cunt in greedy, sucking mouthfuls. The sounds of her pleasure do little to dampen his impatience. He can feel her struggling against the cuff, torso twisting as she attempts to flee the tortuous sensation of his tongue as it travels the length of her channel and back to catch and swirl around her pearl. He lengthens his grip, pressing his forearms to her buttocks and splaying his fingers against the small of her back, as he continues to tease her, changing his rhythm to keep her off balance.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first time I heard you say that,” he confesses, rubbing his cheeks—slick with her desire—against her belly, only to lap it back into his mouth. He can’t remember a time in his life that he has felt this way—raw and unfettered and utterly unashamed.

“Mmm. The Andrews’ case. That was my first day back in Melbourne.”

“I know. I checked the ship’s manifest.”

“Such suspicion!” she laughs—the cacophony growing louder as he tickles the sensitive join where her bottom meets thigh. “I’ve often wondered what you first thought of me.”

Jack stands, lifting her to her feet, and kisses her so she can taste herself in his mouth. One large hand reaches round her to support her arms as the other caresses her breast, drawing soft mewls he sips from her lips.

“I thought you were trouble.” She looks so pleased with herself, he can’t resist pinching her nipple between his knuckles just to hear her gasp. “And I was right—you were awfully certain you had my number, weren’t you?”

“I _did_ have your number. You gave me your card, remember?”

In a whirl, she finds herself facedown in his bedclothes and arse up in his lap—completely unprepared for the ringing _smack!_ that follows, leaving her bottom flushed and stinging and wiggling beyond her control.

Phryne imagines Jack’s handprint—so large it nearly covers the width of her—and has to bite down on a moan that threatens to have his neighbors knocking.

“I remember it was a Tuesday,” he growls. “And that you wore red.”

His blood is pounding in his veins. Jack shuts his eyes tight to recover from the thrum in his hand that seems to connect straight to his cock, to recover from the sensation of Phryne rubbing herself against his thighs—her hip nudging his erection with every thrust. Spreading his legs so her pelvis pulses in the cradle between them, he denies her the friction she so desperately craves.

“I remember that I couldn’t sleep for imagining the next time we might cross paths.” He delivers a blow to the fleshiest part of her left buttock and allows his fingers to linger. To tease the seam of her arse and trace the outlines of her curves until she is writhing on the outside the way he feels on the inside.

“Ohhhh, Jaaack,” she mewls, forgetting herself completely—forgetting the game—forgetting everything but the sensation of his hand against her oversensitised flesh.

Another _crack!_ —this time to the right. Harder. “I also remember telling you to call me _Inspector_.”

And, for a moment, that goddamn feather is back—and Jack is teasing it over her hot skin, and it makes her want to scream and cry and beg him to put his hands back on her. “Ja—Jesus fuck! Pleeeease… Inspector… Oh, god.”

“Such a filthy mouth, Miss Fisher,” he admonishes, even as he reaches between her legs to toy with her slit. _Christ, she’s soaking_. “Did you think about using that mouth on me even then?”

“Yes,” she groans—his voice and hands stoking her desire so she can feel the warm wet of it dripping along the front of her thighs.

He rewards her for her answer with a soft press of lips to her rump. “What did you think?”

Perhaps it is because she now possesses the benefit _(curse)_ of hindsight, she feels somewhat contrite in this. He had still been married—and she can still recall, with mortifying clarity, the damsel in distress act with which she had attempted to ply him. “That despite your dour attitude,” she pants, ragged breath punctuating every few words, “…or, perhaps, precisely because of it… I found you _very_ attractive.”

He rubs soothing circles over her gorgeous blushing skin. Ivory mottled with pink. Jack knows she is waiting for him to refute one or both of these claims. Instead, he uses one of his favorite techniques, and allows silence to settle.

“What else?” he asks, after he’s let her catch her breath, and drawn out her need to fill the space with the truth.

“I thought about inviting you to my suite at the Windsor.”

“And why would you have done a thing like that?”

“To have the pleasure of taking your strict nature apart with my tongue.” She turns her head just in time to catch him grinding his teeth tightly together. “It’s still my pleasure, Inspector Robinson.”

This time, when his hand comes down, his fingertips whip sharply into her passage, striking her cunt from behind. She cries out at once, and he feels her seize in a cataclysmic orgasm. Like a bolt from the blue, it is sudden and brilliant and utterly devastating—leaving her only the energy to burn and smoulder in its wake.

Jack unlatches the circlet from her wrists. She feels his weight shifting on the bed, then warm kisses at the crook of her neck as he rubs feeling back into her arms. “Phryne… _Phryne...?_ ” he whispers. “Abbotsford.”

“That’s _my_ word, Jack.”

“I know.” The gruffness of his voice reverberates through the chamber of her heart reserved for it and nothing else. “You alright?”

Her smile is knowing and wicked as she stretches her arms, brushing against the twitching erection he seems determined to ignore in favour of her welfare. “Nothing a hot bath and the right company wouldn’t cure… But only if you show me what _you_ think goes on in a Turkish bath palace.”

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

After an interlude in Jack’s tub, which is not as grand as Phryne’s but perfectly adequate for getting very dirty all over again, they are back in his bed. Her hair is sticking wetly to his neck, her elbow digging sharply into his ribs. Jack lies against the pillows and sighs a breath of bone-deep satisfaction.

Yawning unapologetically, she rolls onto her side to sleep and tugs him down behind her, guiding his hand round to cradle her left breast. A staccato rhythm thrums beneath.

Jack can feel the metre of Phryne’s heart in her wrist when they waltz. He can feel it in her throat when he lavishes her neck with kisses. But he prefers this best of all—when she is wrapped up in his arms with nothing between them but their skin.

As if sensing his sentimental thoughts, she snuggles her bottom more firmly into his hips, knocking a husky chortle from his throat. “Trouble,” he reminds her with fond exasperation.

“You know,” Phryne says quietly into the darkness. “You could have removed me from that lavatory if you’d really wanted to.”

“That’s right, Miss Fisher.” Jack presses his mouth to her shoulder so she can feel the smirk upon his lips. “I could have.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prompt: 


End file.
